Liberamente
by rhyxzd
Summary: 1920s, New York City - Arthur, newly arrived English immigrant, works as a waiter at a dingy Italian place in hopes of making a new life for himself across the Atlantic. Among the staff is Alfred, a skilled swing pianist whose welcome attitude and upbeat melodies has Arthur enamored from day one. Their lives become inescapably intertwined in the land of golden opportunity.
1. Chapter 1

Arthur never thought he'd be so delighted to be handed a black apron and told to get his ass moving wiping down tables. Though certainly not the glamorous life any immigrant would've envisioned on their trek across the pond, the fact remained that he was here in New York with a livable apartment and a paycheck on the way. Not to mention far, far away from his dear old family.

Yes, Arthur was delighted.

He'd applied for job after job at nearly every establishment in the goddamn city, and only _one_ had even acknowledged him. It was a classy but run-down place, boasting the highest quality authentic Italian cuisine in the neighborhood. It was run by a pair of charismatic Italian brothers, who happened to be immigrants themselves. He liked to think that had nothing to do with their reluctant decision to hire him.

"You'll be taking orders and clearing tables starting right away. Just try not to fuck up," admonished the elder of the two Vargas brothers. "We're low on funds as it is, so if ya end up costing us, you're out," he said, sliding a foreboding index finger across his neck. "And you're English, so I want you no where near the kitchens."

"Right. I'll keep that in mind, sir," Arthur said, ignoring the jab. He turned to go tend to his new job when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"One more thing." Vargas gestured toward the far corner of the restaurant, where a polished cherrywood grand piano sat atop makeshift stage. "You don't touch the piano. Don't even go near it. That thing cost an arm and a leg, got it? And I'm sure Alfred could easily manage to take that from ya if you mess with his one and only."

Arthur allowed the warning to sink in, briefly wondering who the hell Alfred was, before answering. "Of course, sir."

"Good. Now get yer ass moving!"

With that warm welcome out of the way, Arthur got to work cleaning, letting a curious gaze sweep the periphery of the restaurant, taking in his new workplace. It was a sizable joint, though dimly lit and with furnishings that had obviously seen better days. The only exception, he noted, was that piano. It seemed to be in pristine condition, not a scratch, dent, or blemish to be seen on its sleek crimson exterior. _Who here plays that thing, anyway?_ he wondered. And _when_? He looked around at the different wait staff that passed him as they served table to table.

Then he looked left.

And immediately locked eyes with another server, standing closer than he'd realized. He was short and young, with silver-gray hair and rust brown eyes that were, he noticed with a jolt, intensely focused on Arthur.

The boy wasn't moving about like the other workers. Just standing. And _staring_. Trying to combat the cold rush of intimidation that ran down his spine, the Englishman put on what he hoped was a friendly smile. "Hello there, I'm Arthur. I'm a new waiter here."

'Tony', his nametag read.

The young waiter stared a moment longer before narrowing his eyes and scowling. "Great, they finally hire someone new, and it's a fucking limey," he said at full volume, not even bothering to disguise the disdain in his voice. Then he abruptly turned and walked away.

Arthur blinked. Warm welcome indeed…


	2. Chapter 2

It was the fifth day of Arthur's new job and despite the somewhat rocky start, it'd been smooth sailing so far. Arthur had been introduced to other (more friendly, thank God) workers and was beginning to understand the place's...unique dynamic. The restaurant possessed a rather diverse staff, and Arthur had been relieved to find out that many of them were also immigrants. Europeans, he could deal with. Americans were unfamiliar to him; they were loud and strange and backwards-and far too outgoing, the lot of them.

The days were long, but Arthur was still so high on gratitude that he'd even managed to land a job that the arduousness had yet to set in. Each day followed exactly like the one before it.

But on Friday, finally, something new.

It was late evening, towards the end of Arthur's shift, when he heard it: the unmistakable melodic tinkering of piano keys.

A hasty glance toward the back corner of the room confirmed it: there was indeed a young man seated atop the stage, tapping out rhythms and notes leisurely, the song flowing with a certain energy and bounciness that filled the room with a different sort of life. From what he could make out in the low lighting, the man himself had golden-blond hair, framing a tanned face with eyes closed in gentle concentration behind a pair of spectacles. His handsome features, coupled with the lovely music, made for a rather captivating experience.

Arthur understood, now, why his boss had been so adamant about preserving that piano.

"He's pretty good, eh?" remarked Arthur's temporarily-forgotten customer, following Arthur's gaze.

"Quite," Arthur replied simply, eyes still trained on the musician.

The man chuckled. "You must be new here if you're this caught up in it. But yeah, that's Alfred over there, a pretty damn talented kid."

Ah, so _that_ was Alfred. "I've been working for nearly a week now and haven't seen him until today. I was beginning to wonder if that piano was just for show," Arthur replied.

"Al doesn't play weeknights-think he's got some other gigs around town. He's a busy man, but with skills like that, it's no surprise he's in high demand."

"Hm." Weekends only.

Arthur would just have to make the most of his time, then.

* * *

As the night went on, Alfred cranked out melody after melody, sometimes stopping to chat with the nearby tables in between. He seemed completely immersed in his performance, swaying deeply with the pulse of each tune, like an implied sort of dance. The man had a boisterous laugh that could be heard throughout the entire restaurant, accompanied by an all-too-sunny smile.

That smile was currently headed toward Arthur, he realized as he finished wiping down the last of the tables.

"Can't say I've seen your face around here before," he said with a grin. "I'm Al, nice to meet you."

"Arthur. I just started Monday," said Arthur, meeting Alfred's vivid blue eyes.

Upon hearing his voice, Alfred's face seemed to light up. "Arthur! Wow, a genuine Brit!" he said excitedly, that full smile stretched across his face.

Not sure how to respond, Arthur let out an awkward laugh. The apparent novelty of his heritage was something he'd never experienced, having grown up in England, surrounded by Englishmen. But Alfred seemed genuinely charmed.

"How d'ya like it here so far? I know Lovino can be a bit of a dick, but everyone else is really nice, believe me. Once you've been here awhile, it really starts to feel like some kinda family," Alfred rambled, a look of fondness shading his eyes.

Arthur half-mumbled a, "Yes, it's been alright," feeling his face heat up inexplicably. There was a brief moment of reprieve, with not a word exchanged between the two of them. Alfred, looking positively alight with his bright blue eyes, and Arthur shuffling awkwardly, cursing himself for being so socially inept in the face of this man.

"Well, it's great to meet you, Arthur! Hopefully I'll see you again next Friday." The man winked good-naturedly before turning to leave.

Before he could stop himself, Arthur's hand caught his arm.

"Hm?"

"I...you're quite talented. At the piano, I mean. I rather enjoyed it," Arthur stuttered out curtly. God, what was he doing?

Alfred looked surprised for a moment before a wide smile once again bloomed across his features. "Hey, thanks! Glad you liked it, cuz it's really all I'm good for." Another loud chuckle.

They parted ways outside the restaurant. On his brisk walk home, Arthur's ears rang with the sound of wild laughter and the soft swing of the piano.


	3. Chapter 3

The passing days compounded into weeks, and Arthur decided he rather liked this new job, this new living. Though with the bulk of his pay consisting of tips, it was hardly rewarding, he found that it didn't matter so long as he made enough to pay the rent on his shoddy one-bedroom apartment. He was a realist, after all, and he didn't come here to live lavishly. His worst fears about uprooting his life and moving to America had been keeping himself afloat, and he was managing to do that, at least. Though barely.

Despite his initial run-in with Tony, who proved to be firmly anti-English and thus anti-Arthur, he thought he was generally getting along well with the staff. Perhaps a bit _too_ well, in the case of the touchy-feely French cook. Every day brought a new lesson in survival-how to understand Kiku's broken but polite English, why you shouldn't wake Antonio from a "siesta", how to avoid invoking Elizabeta's skillet-induced wrath, who had the highest tolerance for fussy customers (Matthew) and who had the lowest (Gilbert). All in all, Arthur found that Alfred was rather on the nose in his assessment about the restaurant becoming something of a family.

Ah yes, and then there was Alfred.

Arthur worked weekdays, and Alfred played weekend nights, giving them only one day of overlap.

It was always the best day, in Arthur's opinion. Not solely because of Alfred-of course not! Because it was Friday, the last day of Arthur's work week. That's all.

The man simply had a way of getting everyone to relax from the moment he walked through the doors with his crisp white dress shirt, bow tie, and easygoing attitude. Once he started playing, the atmospheric change was radical and immediate. Lovino stopped complaining, Francis stopped flirting, Gilbert stopped...well, being himself. Everyone was all placated words and soft smiles with a clear appreciation for the music dawning in their eyes.

It also tended to draw a larger crowd, which kept the waitstaff busy and allowed idle conversation to flourish. The city was home to folks from all different walks of life and corners of the globe, and the Vargas's cheap ("Affordable!") yet extraordinary cuisine brought them all together. Arthur, who possessed a writer's mind, thought it to be something of a metaphor for the country itself, in a smaller, poorer sense. He'd had even met a few fellow Englishmen, and they'd struck up a riveting conversation about the post-war changes in their mother country.

The warm, pseudo-family feeling...it was nice, to say the least. Certainly a far cry from the family he'd grown up in.

Alfred would go hours into the night pouring over the ivories, changing the pace or key but never the effervescent style. Then he'd hang around as the last stragglers finished their meals, talking jovially to the remaining bunch as if it were noon and not nearly midnight.

Arthur thought he'd have no trouble getting used to this.

And so, a couple months into the job found Arthur once again working a treasured Friday night. It wasn't yet to the hour that Alfred would arrive, and Arthur had just begun servicing a party of six. He was dimly aware that he was on the receiving end of another stagnant glare from Tony across the room, but he had grown used to such treatment and was proudly no longer fazed. He tried to ignore it, and was doing a pretty good job of it, until Tony started getting closer.

And closer.

And it was then, with a platter full of drinks, that it happened. As Arthur made his way from the kitchen to the table, he unwittingly crossed Tony's path.

The first thing that registered was a sharp blow to his abdomen; a forceful elbow to the gut. The next was the panicked alarm of being knocked off-balance and sent careening to the side, amplified by the feeling of the heavy tray in his hand. The third was a wave of cold shock, quickly followed by a sickening lurch in his stomach, as he heard rather than felt the drinks slide off the tray and fall onto the object to his immediate right.

He didn't need to look to know it was the grand piano.

The fourth was the encompassing, nauseating dread, as an enraged Italian-accented voice rang out, " _Arthur, you bastard! What did I tell you about that damn piano?!_ "

* * *

 **A/N:** Uh...hi! I'm rhyxzd and I've never written fanfiction before. (Y'all are probably thinking, 'That explains a lot…' lol) About this story: this is where the plot actually starts to kick in. If all goes according to plan, it should be about ten chapters long, with later chapters hopefully being much longer than these. The research I'm doing for this is...minimal, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes or inaccuracies, as they're sure to pop up. Lastly, I want to thank everyone for reading, following, favoriting, or reviewing-it's so surreal to know that there are _real people_ out there seeing my work! Special thanks to "The Real Review"-I wasn't expecting such a thorough and kind message; it really made my day!


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur had frantically tried to explain, through eyes that were certainly _not_ welling with tears and with a face that was definitely _not_ bright red, that he'd been framed. He described to his boss in painstaking detail what had happened, what had _really_ happened, but it was like talking to a brick wall. If not for the gentle consoling of the peaceable younger Vargas brother, Arthur knew it would've been much more broken than just some glasses and a piano.

"I swear on my life, sir, I was pushed. It was that...twerp! He shoved me, he's had it out for me since day one, he's trying to sabotage me, he's-"

"Save it, Kirkland. When your desperate ass crawled in here, I gave you one warning, loud an' clear. Just one! And look what happened."

"It wasn't my-"

"I don't care whose fault it is! That table over there was yours, you carried that tray, and you were the one standing nex'ta the piano all wide eyes and gaping mouth when I came in to see what all the racket was."

"Please," Arthur said, unable to stop the distress from seeping into his words. "You've got to believe me. It was Tony."

Mr. Vargas gave him a flat look. "Might I remind you that that boy's been workin' here longer than you've even been in this country? I trust him. And I thought I could trust you, too."

"You can! I wasn't-"

"Look," Vargas said with a huff, gesturing to the drink-stained piano. The top had been propped open, the glasses having fallen right onto the bed of silver wires in the piano's frame. Not only was it drenched, with ice cubes scattered about the interior, but a number of strings had been bent crooked with the impact. "No matter who did it, I've still got a broken piano on my hands. This thing was expensive enough to buy, but do you know of any piano repairmen in this part of town? Do you know how much it would cost, if we even happened to find one? I dunno if you noticed, but we don't got that kinda cash just layin' around"

Arthur stood helplessly.

Vargas shook his head. "I didn't wanna have'ta do this, but I can't keep ya 'round here after this disaster. It'll be safer for us and for my blood pressure if you skedaddled. Hand in your apron and get."

Though he probably should've seen it coming, the words didn't sting any less. Arthur took a step back, tried to choke down the sob he felt making its way up his throat. This couldn't be happening. The anger that'd been bubbling in his stomach gave way to cold agony as the reality of his situation began to sink it.

"Gah, and it's Friday, too. What am I gonna tell Al?" Vargas mumbled to himself distraughtly, walking away.

 _Alfred_. He could just see it now-the pianist would walk in, all sunny smile and friendly words, until he saw what'd become of his beloved instrument. He wondered how those bright eyes would change as the realization dawned, as the shock and disappointment and anger played out across his features. Arthur felt his stomach lurch again when he thought that _he_ would be the cause of those expressions, the reason behind that smile's disappearance.

The room suddenly looked to be spinning.

"...Kirkland? You're lookin' a little green in the face…" Vargas said over his shoulder. "Don't tell me you're gonna be sick-you've already made enough of a mess."

Thinking he just might be, Arthur unhooked his apron, turned on his heel and dashed out of the restaurant, unable to take it anymore.

The sun was setting behind the towering cityscape, casting long, deep shadows across the streets and bathing the air in a warm orange tint. Arthur dropped onto the curb, burying his face in his arms. He closed his eyes tightly and inhaled the thick, humid city air.

He was penniless, jobless, and alone in New York City.

 _At least I'm not homeless_ , he thought. _Yet_.

* * *

"Arthur?"

His eyes shot open at the sound of that voice, initial delight quickly overshadowed by deep dread.

"What are you doing out here? Isn't it your shift?"

It was Alfred, _of course_ it was Alfred. Arthur lifted his head, regarding him wearily. He didn't have the heart to break the news to him, even if his side of the story was far truer than what he'd hear from Mr. Vargas- _no, Lovino_ , he mended ruefully-inside.

Upon noticing Arthur's listless expression, Alfred took a surprised step back. "Whoa, man, what's eating you?"

"I-" he started before he was drowned out by shouting from within the restaurant.

"Al, get in here! We got a problem!"

The pianist gave a final concerned look before turning and walking into the restaurant. Arthur tried hard not to imagine the crestfallen look he was sure would befall Alfred's face as the news was broken to him.

About ten minutes later, the door swung open, and a presence joined beside Arthur on the curb.

"Uh…" began a voice that was most definitely Alfred's but so characteristically not, it made Arthur's heart ache. "Lovino told me...what happened. He was pretty pissed-you don't even wanna know some of the things he was calling you," he said with a subdued smile, "But I think I want to hear it from you, too."

At that, Arthur looked up. Alfred wasn't angry? He didn't walk out ready to strangle Arthur, like he'd been imagining in his ten minutes of solitude?

He was giving him a chance.

Arthur swallowed, trying to ward the shakiness from his voice. "...I was framed, essentially."

"What do you mean? I mean, I figured as much, but by who?"

"I was on my way back from the kitchen when that brat-Tony-he elbowed me and sent me flying. I had no control over what happened, I swear. I-"

"What? Tony?" Alfred interrupted, disbelieving. "He's a pretty swell guy. He wouldn't…" he trailed off, sounding conflicted.

Arthur's heart sunk. Of course Alfred wouldn't believe him-and why should he? From the sounds of it, he and the boy were chums-and he'd barely just met Arthur.

"It might sound far-fetched, but the lad never particularly liked me, always calling me 'Limey Bastard' and the likes. I just never thought he'd go as far as to get me fired!"

"...You were fired?" His voice was gentle.

"Hm. Sitting out on the street is hardly part of my job." Arthur knew he was being a prick, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "Ex-job," he added, quieter.

The half-full moon shone distantly in the sky, barely visible above the skyline silhouette.

After a pause, "Look, I love Tony, but I know how he can get with...certain types of people."

Arthur shot him a curious look.

Alfred sighed. "I'm saying...it _does_ sound like something he'd do, if he never did like you. And frankly, I never pegged you as a klutz," he said with a small grin.

"...You believe me?" Arthur asked, incredulous.

"I s'pose so." Alfred stretched his arms forward casually.

Arthur could only stare. "You...I...Thank you, Alfred. You'd be the first so far."

Alfred suddenly looked remorseful. "I'm afraid I can't get you your job back, though."

Arthur looked down, the sinking feeling settling in his limbs once again. "It's alright. I wouldn't expect you to."

A couple cars passed by, headlights briefly illuminating the men's faces. The sky had turned deep violet.

"Are you gonna be okay, y'know, going a while without a job?"

Arthur sighed. "I applied at damn near every place in a thirty-kilometer radius. I can't look farther because I don't have a car. This was my only shot."

"Oh." Alfred's fingers drummed idly against the pavement between them, as if playing an invisible keyboard. "Got a wife or kids to support?"

At that, Arthur snorted. "Alone as can be. I suppose in this instance it's both a blessing and a curse," he mused. "But I do have an apartment. I'm already knee-deep in debt from the travel expenses and initial lease-I don't-" he swallowed again, steadying his voice. "I don't know how I'm going to pay it off after this, not to mention this month's rent."

"Oh," Alfred said again. For once, he seemed at a loss for words.

He knew he was beginning to ramble, but Arthur went on. "Damn it, and I was just starting to like it here, too. I thought I was making friends, earning people's trust, learning the ropes, establishing a routine," he mourned. "All for it to be thrown down the drain because I've been indibted for a crime I didn't commit."

Alfred was silent for a moment longer, and even his fingers, ever moving, ever twitching, were still. He looked over at Arthur, seeming to consider something. Finally, he spoke: "I...I know this might seem shady, what I'm about to say," he began, words cautiously tumbling out, "But what happened to you was an injustice. This is America, and I'm an American, and I won't stand for that."

Arthur was listening.

"I can't fix it, but I can make you an offer. You can stay with me in my apartment until you get back on your feet," he finished, blue eyes trained on Arthur expectantly. "If you'd like."

It was Arthur's turn to be rendered speechless, green eyes wide in awe. "Alfred, I...I couldn't possibly-"

The pianist shifted so that he was facing Arthur completely. "Oh, come on, Arthur. You said it yourself, you have no means to support you or your rent in this state. I'm not just gonna let you go under when I've got a perfectly good place. I mean, I live alone too."

Arthur blinked. There was no way anyone could be this genuinely kind, not unconditionally, not without some kind of strings attached. And yet…

He thought about it. Alfred was a gem among men, certainly, and staying with him would be wonderful. _You'd be a burden,_ the cynical part of him argued. _What choice do I have_ , retorted the voice of reason.

What choice _did_ he have?

"So, Arthur? Whaddya say?" Those blue eyes, still so vibrant in the dim evening, were searching for an answer.

"...Alright," he conceded. "But only until I'm able to secure another job. I'm...You have no idea how thankful I am, Alfred, truly."

"Don't worry about it! I don't mean to toot my own horn or anything, but it's what heroes do," he said with a wide beam.

Arthur's lip quirked up at that. A hero, huh?

"So, uh...I guess I won't be playing tonight, what with the...you know…" Alfred said, gesturing to the storefront. "Not much left for us to do but go back home."

Arthur looked at him dubiously. "You want me to move in _now_?"

"Well, the sooner you're out of there, the better. But, uh, you can wait until tomorrow, if you please."

"I'll spend one more night there, to gather my thoughts and my possessions. How about tomorrow, noonish? I don't have many things to move, so it shan't take long."

"Sounds great!" Alfred said. Then he seemed to consider something. "Uh, here, lemme write down my address," he said, procuring a pen and small notepad out of his front pocket.

Arthur watched him scribble the words, his eyes narrowed in the scant light, eyebrows furrowed and tongue barely peeking out in careful concentration. He looked away.

"There," he said, ripping off the sheet, handing it to Arthur. He stood up. "I know, with being a pianist, you might think me pretty dexterous, but it's all thrown out the window when it comes to writing," he laughed.

Arthur gave a small smile, pocketing the note and standing as well. "Thank you dearly, once again. You have no idea-"

"Don't mention it!" he interrupted cheerfully. "I'll let you go now, since you've probably got a lot on your mind. I guess I'll see you 'noonish,' tomorrow," Alfred said, poorly mimicking Arthur's accent through a lopsided grin.

Arthur swatted him weakly on the shoulder, though he was still smiling. "Yes, I'll see you then."

Arthur watched Alfred's dark silhouette retreat beneath the now-ebony sky, a sense of deja vu washing over him from all the other Friday nights he'd watched the man leave from this very spot. Though, under vastly different circumstances.

And so Arthur made his way back to his apartment for the final time, mulling over their exchange in his head.

 _A hero, indeed._


End file.
